2 am
by Drown Me In Blue
Summary: There was too much distance between them, too much of a void. "Time is the space between me and you," Ichigo remembered from an old song. And really, there was too much time between them.


**Disclaimer (Applies to every story from here on out): **All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Pairing: **Byakuya Kuchiki x Ichigo Kurosaki

**Music: **Falling In_, by Lifehouse_

**Word count:** ~ 1,900

**Rating:** T

* * *

_**Prompt 1: **__2 a.m._

* * *

Two in the morning, and he was _still_ standing outside in the driveway, wondering whether he should go back or just pitch a tent and camp. It wouldn't be the first night that neither one of them had swallowed their pride and simply apologized, and he knew that, between them, it wouldn't be the last. They were both terribly, terribly proud, to the point of pain—pain to themselves and pain to each other.

With a sigh, Ichigo tipped his head back and stared up at the sky. There were no stars, given all the light pollution from Karakura, but the moon hung misty and vague on the horizon, nearly full and providing more than ample light for him to continue standing where he was for hours. He would, too—keep standing, that is. As much he loved the man, he drove Ichigo fucking _nuts_ with his arrogance and talent and grace and beauty.

In the former two ways, they were all too alike. But as far as the others went, Ichigo felt as though he would never catch up. There was too much distance between them, too much of a void. "_Time is the space between me and you_," Ichigo remembered from an old song. And really, there was so much time between them. He always felt like a child in comparison, as though he was an infant and his lover—was that the right word? Lover? _Boyfriend_ was too casual, _partner_ too formal; _sex_-_friend_ didn't convey enough emotional investment, _soul_ _mate_ conveyed too much—and his _lover_ was a quietly aggravated older gentleman.

His lover wasn't, not hardly, and neither was Ichigo. But sometimes, on dark and endless nights like this, it still seemed that way.

The next line of the song fit, somewhat more literally. _"There's a light through that window_." There was, their bedroom window sharply illuminated, stark in contrast to the surrounding darkness. He couldn't see anyone moving, but the presence of the light itself was enough to make his heart clench—a sure sign that, no matter what cold façade the other man presented, it was simply a mask. Was he worrying, as well, alone in the room they had decorated together? Was he wondering if Ichigo would come back? Would he accept Ichigo back? Would he allow himself to _be_ accepted?

With everything he had, Ichigo hoped that Byakuya was.

Sighing softly, Ichigo took a step.

DIVIDING LINE HERE

The tick of the clock was incredibly loud in the silent house, and only years of lessons in proper decorum kept Byakuya from fidgeting, attempting to ease the vice-grip that creeping panic had on his heart. Ichigo was always in motion, always tangibly _there_, even when he was silent. His absence now was harsh and grating, something that Byakuya—once so accustomed to being alone—could not accept.

A soft chime announced the half-hour. Byakuya leaned forward, twitching the curtain away from the window ever so slightly. The figure in the driveway had not moved, half-turned away from the house and looking up at the serene, bloated moon with what Byakuya knew from experience would be a pensive, almost _longing_ expression. It nearly frightened Byakuya, whenever he saw it. There was something so distant about Ichigo's face at those moments, something untouchable. He knew that Ichigo cared for him and relied on him for stability and affection. Those two things that had been lacking in his life ever since his mother's death when he was a child, and Byakuya knew he was the only one to provide them. Nevertheless, whenever that expression took over, Byakuya feared that the younger man would draw away from him. When Ichigo looked like that, Byakuya feared Ichigo would realize what a mistake it was for a young, vibrant artist with so much passion and fire and talent to have taken up with a ruthless, emotionally stunted businessman. One old enough to be his father, at that.

Even now, Byakuya couldn't understand why Ichigo had _stayed_ after their first night. It was supposed to be a one-off, after a chance meeting at a gallery that Byakuya had attended for a business function and at which Ichigo was the featured artist. As much as he enjoyed art, Byakuya could admit—if only to himself, and in the dead of night—that the artist had held far more fascination for him than the paintings, as lovely as they were. He had probably fallen there, with their very first word, if he considered the night closely. He didn't do so often, because he was not one to overanalyze such incredible, astounding good fortune. No matter how Ichigo teased him about it, Byakuya was not one to question his luck.

The loss of another quarter-hour chimed through the bright, brittle silence of the empty house.

Byakuya checked again. Ichigo had not moved.

Not for the first time, he inwardly cursed his pride, even as he kept every emotion from showing on his face. It had been a stupid argument, something petty that neither one of them cared about very much. They were like that as a couple, constantly arguing and snapping at one another, and usually neither minded. But sometimes true aggravation leaked through, and the words became sharp, biting, meant to wound and scar.

It was strange, _awful_, because Byakuya never truly meant to speak the vile poison that escaped him at such times, but it came spilling out nevertheless, the manifestation of every insecurity and fear in his heart that he would never otherwise show. At the very moment when he should have been drawing his lover closer, wrapping him in a warm embrace and pleading with him never to leave, the icy monster of cold disdain that dwelt under his skin emerged and pushed Ichigo farther away, all but demanding, _ordering _that he get out, that he vanish before he could dig himself any deeper into Byakuya's life.

Truthfully, Byakuya would have liked nothing better than for Ichigo to dig in as deep as he could and stay forever, but another part of him—the part still wounded by his wife's death, still scared of any sort of warmth or human contact—part of him knew that if Ichigo got any deeper, and then left, Byakuya would never recover from it.

Automatically, he edged the curtain aside again, glancing out.

Ichigo was still there, and the tight band around his heart eased ever so slightly. He stood and turned, striding for the door.

* * *

It would be far easier to apologize, Ichigo reflected, if he didn't love the emotionless bastard as much as he did. But he did love Byakuya, had loved him from the very first moment that a beautiful, elegant businessman had turned from his fancy partners and friends and approached a young, terrified artist to compliment him on his work. And because he loved him, it was almost impossible to force the words _I'm sorry_ past his lips. _I'm sorry_ was a simple phrase, too weak and soft to convey the aching regret that formed iron bands around his heart every time they fought. What if someday it wasn't enough?

He would try, though, if only to be able to say it just _once_ before Byakuya came to his senses and tossed Ichigo out on his ear.

Ichigo really didn't know, couldn't understand why it had gone further than a single night. He hadn't expected anything more than a cursory goodbye after they were finished fucking, maybe at the most having Byakuya personally show him to the door. Never in a thousand years would he have expected the great Byakuya Kuchiki, insanely wealthy lord of the computer industry, to invite him to stay the night, and then to stay for breakfast the next morning.

And then for lunch, and dinner, and another night.

Before he knew it, Ichigo had been living with him, _beside_ him in all things, and it was more than he could have ever asked for.

His footsteps crunched on the gravel, almost obscenely loud, as he headed up the driveway, towards the spill of golden light that guarded the front door from the encroaching shadows of a weeping maple tree. They had planted the tree together, all of two years ago. It had been one of their first actions as an official "couple," and Ichigo was inordinately fond of the tree. His paintings for months afterwards had featured maple leaves and gracefully twisting trunks, green and deep wine-red and soft bark-grey—and still did, if to a lesser and more controlled degree.

He took another step, and the front door swung open.

Ichigo half-expected Byakuya to toss him a neatly packed bag and tell him to be on his way, but instead, he stepped down onto the gravel—_barefoot_, Ichigo noted with a sort of detached, amused concern. _Since when does Byakuya go barefoot?_—and crossed the last few steps that remained between them. They both came to a halt, a single foot of space the only thing separating them, and stared as though surprised _not_ to see great changes from their last encounter, mere hours ago.

"I'm sorry," Ichigo blurted, before his mind had a chance to actually process the words and stop them yet again. "What I said…it was out of line."

Byakuya looked startled for a moment, or as startled as he ever did, and then nodded slowly. "But it was true," he allowed. "I…apologize as well, for the same reason."

"_Will you stay?"_ hung unspoken between them, as did _"Do you really want an immature, temperamental artist?"_ and _"Are you certain you want an old, inflexible, emotionless man?"_

Ichigo smiled crookedly and stepped forward, brushing through all of the questions as though they were nothing but cobwebs, until he could wrap one hand around the nape of Byakuya's neck and lean up to press their lips together. Byakuya responded, latching on to him like a drowning man and pulling him close. In his mouth, Ichigo tasted forgiveness and repentance and want and need and _stay, please stay_ all mixed up and intertwined. In that moment, he loved it. He loved that the normally composed Byakuya could be reduced—_elevated?_—to nothing but a simple man, desiring love and company. For all of their differences, neither of them wanted anything more than the throb of another heartbeat against his own and the love and trust that came with it.

It was forever and yet hardly long enough at all when Byakuya drew back, and Ichigo pretended as though he had thought to do the same. They looked at each other for a few short, endless moments, and then Byakuya stepped back and opened the door wide, and Ichigo smiled at him and stepped into _their_ house, pulling Byakuya in behind him.

Somewhere the clock struck three a.m., but neither of them heard it.


End file.
